


Born to Lose

by junkverse



Series: The Comeback Kid [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (like kinda?), Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8420113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkverse/pseuds/junkverse
Summary: Yuuri tries to settle his thoughts with another late-night skate session, but it doesn't quite go like he hoped.(spoilers for episode 4, kinda)





	

So. The Grand Prix assignments were announced. The Nationals were happening. _All of it_ was happening. The reality of it was just starting to sink in for Yuuri, as he sat surrounded by his friends and family; he felt almost dizzy from their warmth, their support. Viktor’s hand was on his shoulder, his parents were wishing him luck and teasing him about autographs, Yuko and Nishigori were laughing, and it was all _real_.

And all Yuuri felt was an itch to get away.

He smiled through it as best he could (privately wondering why he wasn’t more grateful the whole time), until the night began to fade and everyone began to drift away- Yuko and Nishigori and the triplets back to their place, Minako back to her apartment, his parents and Mari and Viktor all to their rooms, and to sleep.

Except for Yuuri.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. He watched the clock on his phone slowly tick past ten and eleven and towards midnight, the numbers blurred for lack of glasses. He listened to the inn settle, listened to the odd car pass by on the road, listened to all the world going quiet and dark. Sleep still wouldn’t come, stayed by that itch that prickled along the soles of his feet, up his legs and spine, and into his brain. The itch settled there, getting bigger and louder until it blared, sharp and red.

Yuuri needed to get out. So: glasses on, jacket on, shoes on, keys and phone in pockets, Yuuri tiptoed across creaking floorboards and out past the darkened rooms and kitchen and dining room of the inn, and away.

The run to the rink was blessedly empty, the night a little warm but cooling at the edges. There was, off in the distance, the sound of cars puttering about, and indistinct chatter from nearby bars, but more immediately there was the sound of the waves crashing against the pier, and a breeze filtering through the trees near the rink. Yuuri let it wash over him as he ran, feet slapping pavement, trying to put thoughts of competitions and choreography and his probably-last-season and _everything_ out of his head. There’d be time for all of that, just… not tonight.

He took the steps up to Ice Castle Hasetsu two at a time, fumbling the keys as he did. He unlocked the door, rushed through into the lobby, slapping light switches on as he headed into the locker rooms. Shoes off, skates on, laces up, jacket zipped up, and Yuuri was out the locker room doors and, finally, back at the rink.

It was perfect. Not a soul in sight, the overhead lights gleaming off the ice, the air sharp and cool. There was the faint whirr of the coolant machines, and the quiet echo of Yuuri’s steps, but it was otherwise silent.

Yuuri breathed deeply, letting the cold air fill him, and pushed out onto the ice.

At first he just did laps, focusing on the texture of the ice beneath him (smoothed over, with a few little bumps and imperfections that made his blades click), the sound his blades made (a gentle rasp that echoed a bit through the empty rink), the way the crisp air felt on his skin. He breathed out, noting how the sweat on his neck and forehead was already cooling, how the warmth and smells from the inn were gone, replaced by the almost chemical cold of the rink. (Yuuri had always thought the rink had a distinctive _smell_ , like some especially chilly winter mornings did, but he never told anyone that. It was kind of an odd idea, he supposed.)

Soon, he found himself in the rhythms of the new routine -his arms swooping and back arching to now-silent music, his body slowly becoming a series of graceful curves. It wasn’t perfect, the choreography still new in his mind, but the spirit was there. He pulled himself into a spin, briefly taking in the motion-smeared colors of the rink before drifting out of it, one leg up. He lowered it, one foot over the other, turning himself backwards with a simple twist of the hips.

There weren’t a lot of places where Yuuri could do anything without effort, and with grace. He was clumsy, awkward, always unsure of his own body. Except here. On the ice. Here he floated, glided, danced. Here he could simply… be.

His arms and body swooped again, making a wide curve around the rink. The blades clicked, rasped against the ice, the air chilled his skin, the cold was in his lungs. He built momentum, speeding, launching himself into a perfect jump-

-and crashed, knees and legs thudding heavily onto the ice, his body skidding. The sound of it echoed through the rink.

Yuuri lay there for a moment, blinking. He slowly pushed himself up off the ice, his hands slipping a little for lack of purchase. He breathed in-

-and _screamed_.

He lurched forward, his forehead bouncing against the ice, arms wrapped around his middle. Another scream bubbled in his chest, but he swallowed it down, a choked, raspy yell escaping him instead. Tears prickled at the edges of his eyes and he _hated_ it.

It was always like this. Always. He practiced, and practiced, memorized the choreography until he could almost do it in his sleep, but no matter what, he ended up back here. Fallen. On the ice. Even after all his work, and all of Viktor’s training, it didn’t matter. He always messed up, even in the place he was at his best. And God, the Nationals were only a few months away and even if he prepped and practiced and skated til his feet bled he would mess up because that’s what Yuuri _was_ , a mess-up, a failure, a loser, always last place, and he would always-

He suddenly became aware of his throat clenching painfully, a horrible warm buzz in his skull, a deep, prickling sensation in his hands and along his legs. _No_ , he thought, but couldn’t say, the words lodged firmly in his throat. The tears spilled, blurring his vision, and Yuuri pressed his forehead as hard as he could to the ice, trying to focus again on the texture and temperature, but it was too much, it was _too much_ -

_“Yuuri!”_

Yuuri’s head snapped up, and he looked back towards the doors.

Viktor.

 _No. No, not him, please don’t let him see like this,_ Yuuri begged. But Viktor already had, and was walking towards him, kneeling beside him. He looked worried, and a little frightened.

“Yuuri,” Victor said. “Are you okay?”

Yuuri tried to answer, _I’m fine, just twisted my ankle, just give me a moment and I’ll be good_ , but nothing came out except for a series of high, stuttering noises, the clipped beginnings of words.

“Can you get up?”

Yuuri nodded, and slowly began unfolding himself -arms on the ice, knees underneath him. He winced, his knees already feeling bruised, and carefully stood. Viktor’s hands gently pressed into his side to steady him, and Yuuri barely felt it, everything both too immediate and too far away.

“Okay, good. Can you make it to the lockers?”

Yuuri nodded again, pulling himself away and heading towards the exit. He dimly thought about apologizing to Yuko for not cleaning up the rink as his legs took him into the locker room, almost of their own accord. He sat down on the nearest bench, weakly fumbling with the laces of his skates, suddenly aware that he was not quite gasping for air.

“Here.”

Yuuri blinked. Viktor was there, again, kneeling in front of him, cradling one of Yuuri’s feet.

“Let me,” Viktor said, softly. As Yuuri watched, Viktor began to carefully undo the laces, gently loosening it as he went. He pried the skate off of Yuuri’s feet, set it aside, and began to undo the other.

“So,” Viktor said, his tone conversational, “can you tell me what happened?”

Yuuri opened his mouth, trying to will the words past the lump in his throat. “F-fell,” he managed.

Viktor nodded. “Yes, I saw that. But you’re usually not like this after a fall, are you?”

Yuuri shook his head.

“What’s different this time?”

Yuuri opened his mouth, shut it. There wasn’t an answer, really, even if he had words. He hung his head, a dry sob escaping him.

“Hey,” Viktor said. His voice was so soft it was almost a murmur. “It’s okay. Just tell me.”

Yuuri shook his head, and looked Viktor in the eyes. He began to carefully sign _I’m overloaded_ , but Viktor’s brow furrowed.

“Ah. I don’t…”

Yuuri switched to fingerspelling, taking time to pause between signs.

“Yuuri, I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Yuuri made a noise of frustration, hitting himself on the head with a palm.

“Hey, now, none of that,” Viktor said, sternly.

 _Sorry_ , Yuuri signed, out of habit. He averted his gaze, unable to stand looking at Viktor and seeing the worry, the _pity_.

“Can you not talk?” Viktor asked.

Yuuri shook his head. Viktor made a thoughtful noise, absently drumming his fingers on Yuuri’s remaining skate.

“Text?”

Yuuri blinked. _Of course_ , he thought, fumbling through his jacket pockets for his phone. He found it, shakily unlocked it, and quickly began typing a message. When he was done, he turned it towards Viktor so he could see it. 

“‘Overloaded, can’t words, head hurts,’” Viktor read. He glanced up at Yuuri. “Does… does this happen often?”

Yuuri nodded, already typing again. He turned the phone back around. _Skating usually helps. But not this time._

Viktor frowned, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you know what brought it on?”

Yuuri hesitated. Where to even begin? _Nationals,_ he typed. _Grand Prix. Everything._ He bit his lip, sighed. _Don’t want to let you down._

“You won’t let me down,” Viktor said. He sounded so certain.

 _But I will,_ Yuuri typed. _I still can’t get the jumps right, and it’s only going to get worse once I get into competiti-_ Here he stopped; his fingers were shaking too much to continue. The tears were back, falling thick and too-warm, and Yuuri couldn’t muster the energy to wipe them away.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said. He carefully took the phone from Yuuri’s hands and set it aside, took one of Yuuri’s hands in his own. “Listen to me.”

Yuuri raised his head slightly, though he still couldn’t quite look at Viktor.

“I came here for _you,_ ” Viktor said. “I stayed for _you._ I knew when I saw you that you could make something beautiful on the ice. And you have, again and again.” He squeezed Yuuri’s hand. “You can do this, you just need time.”

Viktor’s voice became softer, more gentle. “Please… treat yourself a little more kindly, Yuuri. You deserve that much.”

A moment passed where neither of them spoke or moved, the only sound Yuuri’s stifled crying. Viktor sighed, removing his hand.

“Okay. Let me get this skate off, and we can go home.”

 

 

The rest of the night was a blur. Yuuri dimly remembered the walk back, and Viktor leading him back to his room, but the rest faded and bled into the dark of sleep. When Yuuri finally woke up, it was well past dawn, and his head felt like a room where all the furniture had been moved an inch to the left -very subtly off in a way you couldn’t quite place.

Slowly, carefully, he got up and dressed, distantly making note of the new, interesting bruises on his knees and ankles. They hurt, but it was a muffled, manageable kind of hurt, the sort that could be iced away easily. There were other things and feelings pinging in the back of Yuuri’s head -hunger, a sort of gnawing tiredness that clung to his arms and legs, a persistent fuzziness to his thoughts- but those could be taken care of later.

He shuffled to his bedroom door, opened it, and-

“Oh! Morning, Yuuri.”

Yuuri jumped, yelped, and stumbled backwards a step. Viktor was standing in front of him, one hand raised as if he’d been about to knock on the door. Yuuri thought that he looked almost guilty for a moment, before Viktor’s expression smoothed into a mild smile.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Viktor said. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, I’m… f-fine,” Yuuri said. Words were still difficult, rolling around on his tongue like too-smooth marbles, and he had to concentrate to get them out right. “Let me… get ready, and I’ll meet you-”

“No.”

“Eh?”

“Remember what I said about rest being part of work, too?”

“Y-yes…?” 

“Well,” Viktor said, with a voice that sounded just a shade too chipper, “consider this a work day of a different kind. I want you here, resting. No skating, no workouts.”

“But… V-Viktor, I need to p-prep for the season,” Yuuri said. He swallowed, guilt blooming in his chest. “I can’t just… slack off.”

“It’s not slacking off,” Viktor said. “It’s treating yourself kindly, yes?” He paused meaningfully. 

Yuuri blinked. “I. Yes.”

“I think you need that, after how hard you’ve been training.”

“If… if you say so,” Yuuri said.

“Good.” Viktor turned as if to leave, but hesitated. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“When you feel up to it,” Viktor said, “I’d like it if you taught me those…” He waved his hands, wiggling his fingers a little in a passing imitation of the signs Yuuri had used the night before.

“The… s-sign language?”

Viktor snapped his fingers, smiling. “Yes, that! I’d like to learn that, for… well. Just in case.” The smile faltered for a moment. “Seems like it’d be useful.”

“Uh. Sure,” Yuuri said. “Be happy to.”

Viktor nodded, seemingly satisfied, before turning on his heel and walking down the hall back to his own room. “I’ll see you later tonight, Yuuri. Take it easy.”

Yuuri slumped against his bedroom door, exhaling. He felt… lighter, somehow. There was less fuzz at the edge of things. His head still didn’t feel quite right, but. Still. He was here. Viktor was here. Maybe that was enough.

He murmured a quiet thanks (to Viktor or to God or whoever, he wasn’t sure it mattered), before pushing himself off the door and heading to the kitchen. He needed breakfast, and ice for his legs.

Everything else would sort itself out, one way or another.

**Author's Note:**

> holy cats I can't believe I wrote a fic. wild.
> 
> The title is from a Sleigh Bells song of the same name. It doesn't really fit this fic tonally, but it nevertheless got the ball rolling.
> 
> Yuuri's experiences here are (loosely) based on my own history with panic attacks and sensory overload. The sign language he uses here is ASL rather than JSL or pidgin sign; I imagine he picked it up during his time in Detroit.
> 
> feedback's appreciated. thanks for reading.


End file.
